Degrees of Separation
by APat96
Summary: Percy and Annabeth have never met, and yet they are not strangers to one another. Written in the style of Woolf's Mrs. Dalloway.


Percy decided he would not ask the woman himself. Rather, he would find another way to do so. A mutual acquaintance, perhaps; after all, there was likely to be a friend who knew a roommate of so-and-so, who would be positively _delighted_ to introduce them. It wasn't so much that he was nervous—though his heart _was_ beating rather quickly—more that he was not exactly sure how to go about broaching the subject.

He had seen the woman around campus more than once—that lecture on economics, when she had shown up fifteen minutes late, wearing pajamas; hadn't he sworn he'd learn her name at some point or another? But work had intervened, studies, and social gatherings, to the extent that he couldn't spare a moment to track her down. Really, he thought, was it worth the effort? Did he want to come across as—but then again, here she was…

Over the stack of volumes he had placed in front of him he watched her, hearing her soles' melodic tapping—was it real, or had he imagined it?—over the near-silent turn of pages.

It would be spontaneous, of course, and completely unlike him to do so, and still the predictability of it all soothed him; he knew her type, knew what to say and do to complete the action himself. Coffee? he would ask. Dinner? I know an excellent French café just down the street. Yet the more he saw her there, standing in the corner whilst facing off with a framed photograph, the less sure he became of his grasp on her character.

Visually, she intrigued him. She was, to put it mildly, unlike any other girl he had ever before been attracted to. Beth had been blonde, as had Stacy, and Emma, and yet this woman—her hair was black, but aside from her hair color, there was something, something—he couldn't quite put his finger on it—different about her.

Her face was similar, in some aspects, to a piece of art, not so much in quantifiable beauty—she wasn't much to look at—but rather more along the lines of impressionistic beauty. Nothing about her screamed neat and orderly; she was thick, disorganized, a hectic swirl of variety and color, thick lines, dashes, punctuation on canvas, _thick_. Upon closer inspection—as close as Percy could surmise without ever leaving his seat—she was flawed, of course; when she turned to smile at a fellow it was plainly obvious how her lipstick had vandalized her front tooth, a smudge of cherry on off-white tiling. Yet from afar, when the fluorescent lighting dimmed his vision, she was quite something—even the most cataract-riddled eye could spot her just by hand gestures alone. Yes, he thought, from afar, thick and splattered became deliberate and painstaking.

And she didn't even seem to notice, Percy thought. Didn't make eye contact with him—or any other male, for that matter—from across the crowded library, didn't fiddle with her hair, or straighten her clothing, or…

But what was that? Percy wondered. What was she now doing, playing with those rings she had stacked upon her fingers?

The accessories made her knuckles look so large, Annabeth thought, moving the rings this way and that, hoping her mannish hands did not scare away the other students.

And what if someone were to see her examining her fingers in broad daylight? They would think her strange, obviously, though that was nothing new. She knew, of course, that her bright wardrobe was perhaps too bright for the common palette, that her sheer awkwardness perhaps a deterrent for interested males, if there ever were any.

She knew that she would blossom later—hadn't she always been told that? After all, from birth, Annabeth had hoped, prayed and wished to be art, beautiful art. Botticelli, certainly, for she would have given anything to be Venus, with the sunshine-riddled curls and demure smile. Oh, why couldn't she have been Venus? she sighed, examining her pinkish forearm.

But instead of Venus, instead of Botticelli's delicate strokes, instead she was Picasso's creation, a lack of symmetry, the unconventionality so plainly evident on her face.

Oh, it was hopeless, she thought, meeting eyes with that familiar-seeming boy from across the room—they had had a class or two together, hadn't they?—and quickly looking away. Not one person in the space seemed even close to leaving anytime soon. She would study elsewhere.

Just as well, Percy thought. Relief soaked through him as he watched her turn and push through the wooden doors, which birthed her into the outside world. But that bitter taste he sensed in his mouth, where indifference should have been, what was it?

Regret, he noted. A missed opportunity.

But she would always be there, accessible through a friend of a friend of a friend, should he ever dare to spread a hand outstretched.

Within reach, he thought. Within reach.


End file.
